The Thirty-One Kings

by Robert J. Harris

  Dougal drove at high speed, taking advantage of the fact that we were virtually the only traffic. Here and there I spotted a side street that had been blocked off with a lorry or a wagon. A few Parisians, I guessed, had put these obstacles in place as a token resistance against the invaders. After the cynical defeatism of last night’s party, it was heartening to see at least a remnant of the fighting French spirit.

  We parked out of sight of our destination, and Jaikie and I went on ahead to scout out the lie of the land. Keeping to the early morning shadows we made our way cautiously up the Rue Bellarmine. A large sign marked the place: Le Pégase, Une Maison des Antiquités. It was a large red brick building three storeys high with a stout front door flanked by barred windows.

  ‘You wait here,’ said Jaikie. ‘I’ll circle around and see what we’re up against.’

  He had no sooner spoken than he disappeared from view. I sank back well out of sight, for I was sure I spotted movement at the windows. I was suddenly alerted to a deep, distant buzzing, and when I looked up I saw a formation of German aircraft flying over the city. They separated, swooping low to reconnoitre the streets. My nerves tingled warningly as they passed overhead for I knew they were the heralds of the mighty army that would soon occupy the city.

  A few minutes later Jaikie popped up again as if from nowhere. His expression was grim. ‘We’d best get back to the others for a council of war,’ he said.

  The Die-Hards gathered eagerly around their scout and listened intently to his report.

  ‘The delivery yard round the back was deserted so I sneaked in there and managed to jemmy open a window without being heard,’ he told them. ‘There’s plenty of cover inside, what with the antique furniture and packing cases, so I made my way about pretty handily. I spotted at least half a dozen rough-looking types speaking to each other in German.’

  He paused to glance at me before continuing. ‘There was a blonde girl there, too, and she was obviously in charge. They were mostly clustered about a stairway leading down to the basement, so I guess that’s where they’ve got their prisoner locked up.’

  ‘So what’s your assessment?’ Dougal asked.

  Jaikie shook his head. ‘They’re well armed and dug in as deep as a badger in his sett. It will take more firepower than we’ve got to root them out.’

  ‘And once the German army gets here, any shooting’s going to bring them running,’ I added.

  ‘It’s pretty certain those lads mean to sit tight until their pals get here and there’s nothing that will shift them in the meantime,’ Dougal grumbled.

  I was wondering if we simply had to chance making an assault, no matter how hopeless, when I noticed the eyes of the Die-Hards were all fixed on Thomas. From their expectant gaze you would have thought him an oracle who could divine the will of the gods.

  Jaikie had told me that the pastor was the master strategist of the group in the rough days of their youth, but he presented a sober figure now, who was no longer the would-be pirate of boyhood.

  Thomas’s eyes were downcast in deep thought and I wondered whether the Die-Hards’ confidence in his intelligence was founded upon youthful games rather than hard facts. However, when he looked up, there was a gleam in his eye that immediately dispelled my doubts. The guile of his youth had not abandoned him.

  ‘Boys, there’s only one answer,’ he said, his Scottish burr becoming more pronounced with each word. ‘We maun be the Germans.’

  17

  SCAVENGER HUNT

  Thomas quickly outlined his plan, assigning to each of the Die-Hards his particular role. It was as brilliant as it was audacious, although even as I listened I dared not contemplate how slender the odds of success must be.

  ‘Every one of you is an expert scrounger,’ the pastor concluded, ‘so chap on doors, break into shops if you have to, for we must be like the good thief and hope for forgiveness. We’ve no more than a half-hour’s grace, so go to it!’

  There followed the most remarkable scavenger hunt I have ever witnessed. I was left to guard the car and watch in growing admiration as one by one my young companions returned with their bounty. Dougal obtained a red sheet, a wooden pole and a pot of black paint with a brush. Thomas had bagged a loud-hailer and a pair of grey overcoats with matching caps. Jaikie came hurrying up the street with a wind-up phonograph cradled in his arms, swiftly followed by Peter with a collection of records.

  ‘I had a sair fecht finding somebody that would admit to having these,’ Peter declared with a grin, ‘but I think they’ll do the job.’

  ‘Good work, boys,’ Thomas complimented his friends. ‘Now we must set to work.’

  While the pastor shuffled through the records, Peter wound up the phonograph and Dougal began painting a large black swastika on the crimson sheet.

  ‘It turns my stomach to do this,’ he said sourly, ‘but needs must.’

  All of us paused momentarily, for our ears had picked up a warning sound - a low growl in some far-off street. From the north a line of military vehicles was advancing into the city. I remembered how, when I went to play on the beach, my mother always warned me to keep an eye out for the tide or I would find myself stranded on a sand bar. I knew that now a similarly inexorable tide would all too quickly engulf us.

  Without a word being spoken, Jaikie and I checked our pistols, and I followed him on a stealthy course around to the loading yard at the back of the store.

  ‘I doubt we’ll have more than a couple of minutes,’ he said, ‘so we’ll need to be nippy. Even if Thomas’s scheme works as we hope, we’ll still have a guard or two to deal with.’

  ‘There will be no time for niceties,’ I agreed. ‘Anybody that stands in our way must go down fast and hard.’

  Jaikie climbed onto a discarded packing case and peered through the window he had forced earlier. We had a short tense wait until we heard the Die-Hards go into action.

  I knew from the plan that the Delage was passing along the street some distance off. The braying horns of Wagner’s Valkyrie roared triumphantly from the phonograph while Dougal stood on the running board in a grey coat and cap he hoped would pass for a uniform to anyone who didn’t get too close. Fluent as he was in both languages from his journalistic travels, he bellowed through the loud-hailer in alternating French and German: ‘People of Paris, you have nothing to fear! This is your moment of liberation! You are now proud subjects of the Reich!’

  It was Thomas’s intention that with the flag waving above the car and the Die-Hards’ rowdy demonstration of victory, Beata and her crew would be convinced that their fellow countrymen had arrived. With any luck, that distraction would buy Jaikie and me just enough time to make our move.

  From inside the building I distinctly heard a raucous cheer. My heart leapt at this initial success, but I was well aware that the deception would not hold up indefinitely.

  Jaikie climbed nimbly over the window ledge, signalling me to follow. We dropped inside and crouched low behind a pile of rolled-up Persian rugs. Beyond lay a capacious storage area that covered the entire ground floor, packed from end to end with statues, paintings, furniture and ornaments, most of them covered or boxed up. It was clear that while her fellow antique dealers were fleeing the city in a panic, Beata had picked up any number of bargains.

  Jaikie and I made our way forward, dodging from cover to cover, drawing ever closer to the stairway. Beata and her men were moving towards the front and we saw an oblong of light appear as the guard there threw open the door.

  The Germans spilled onto the street and cried out boisterously to the figures in the car, welcoming them to Paris and promising them a delightful time. Their bogus compatriots, I guessed, were waving back enthusiastically while being careful to keep their distance.

  Only one man had been left behind to guard the steps down to the cellar. With a sub-machine gun cradled in his arms, he was staring at his comrades, clearly wishing he could rush out and join the celebration. He tapped his foot on the floor in time to W
agner’s warlike music.

  In an open packing case near at hand lay a bronze statuette of the goddess Aphrodite. Snatching her from her cradle of straw, I crept up on the guard from behind. Before he could turn around, I swung the statuette like a cricket bat at his head. My makeshift club connected solidly over his left ear and he dropped like a felled ox with blood welling from his temple.

  The din from outside covered the noise of our encounter. Jaikie darted forward and snatched the submachine gun from the guard’s limp fingers. Stooping, I ransacked his pockets and pulled out a set of keys.

  To our right lay a flight of stairs connecting with the cellar. On my signal, Jaikie took up a guard position facing the outer door while I descended the steps. Below lay three doors, but only one of them was shut. I rifled swiftly through the keys till I found the right one and yanked the door open.

  Light from the hallway poured into a bare, darkened room beyond. In the far corner crouched a dishevelled figure in a grubby shirt and torn trousers. He lurched to his feet, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

  ‘Roland?’

  After an uncertain pause, he nodded. I could see he was taken aback by the sudden appearance of a stranger, and made haste to reassure him. ‘I’m a friend,’ I told him. ‘I’ve come to get you out of here. We must be quick.’

  When he stumbled out into the light I could see he was barely thirty years old with wavy chestnut hair, a strong chin and keen hazel eyes. There were shocking bruises on his face, and he winced as he moved, evidence of the rough treatment he had received at the hands of his captors. The prospect of freedom, however, lent him a jolt of energy and he bounded up the stairway close behind me.

  ‘Gabriel!’ Jaikie exclaimed as soon as he caught sight of the captive. ‘What a bonnie sight you are!’

  The freed man’s eyes widened in incredulous recognition. ‘Jaikie! What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘No time to explain now,’ said Jaikie. ‘Sir Richard Hannay, this is Graf Gabriel von Falken.’

  His friend raised a reproving hand. ‘Jaikie, you know we don’t use those titles in Austria any more. It is plain Gabriel Falken, just as it was at Cambridge.’

  The reunion of the old college friends was cut short by a spatter of gunfire from the street. The Germans had seen through the trick and opened up on the Die-Hards who immediately returned fire. I heard Beata’s voice berating her minions with the viciousness of a harpy.

  A clatter of booted feet warned us that some of them were hurrying back towards us in response to Beata’s shrieked command. She understood at once the purpose of the diversion and she had no intention of letting her prize slip from her grasp.

  Jaikie fired off a scatter of bullets that sent the Germans diving to the ground. Beata melted into the shadows and snapped off a couple of shots that whizzed by Jaikie’s ear, forcing him back into cover.

  ‘I’ll hold them off, sir,’ he gasped. ‘You get Gabriel out of here.’

  There was no time for me to argue or to thank him. Seizing Gabriel by the sleeve, I yanked him after me and dashed for the rear window. I felt rotten about leaving Jaikie and the others behind to fight it out, but my mission was clear: I was to get Gabriel out of here and back to London, if that was at all possible.

  I boosted him up through the window ahead of me and clambered out behind him into the yard. Before the Germans could think to cut off the rear, we raced for the lane beyond.

  From behind us came the rumble of military vehicles and a sharp increase in gunfire. Wehrmacht troops had arrived to rendezvous with Beata and were now engaged in a firefight with the Die-Hards.

  As Gabriel and I pelted down the lane, a window above us was flung open by a beefy man who shook his fist angrily while unleashing a stream of obscenities. In the heat of the moment, I couldn’t tell if he was cursing the Germans or merely complaining about having his sleep disturbed.

  As we approached the main road the growl of heavy engines ahead brought us to a halt. Ducking behind a corner, I saw that the newly arrived Germans were methodically sweeping the streets. My heart sank: it was only a matter of time before we were surrounded and cut off.

  Gabriel suddenly placed a firm hand on my shoulder and I could tell that he had quite shaken off the enfeebling effects of his captivity. There was a determined glint in his eye that told me for the first time that he was indeed a man upon whom the future fate of Europe might well depend.

  ‘Sir Richard, I must ask you to trust me,’ he said in the voice of one used to taking command of a bad situation. ‘I believe I can get us to safety, but we must move rapidly and you must ask no questions.’

  ‘Lead on,’ I urged him.

  Crouching low and keeping to whatever cover he could find, he led me down a series of streets and alleyways with an unhesitating confidence that told me he had the whole city mapped out in his head. When we heard hoof beats ahead, we dropped out of sight behind a stationary car. A German trooper with a rifle slung over his back came riding down the street on a grey gelding, his eyes darting from side to side. As soon as he was past, we resumed our progress.

  ‘I have made some friendly contacts in Paris,’ Gabriel assured me. ‘They have not all proved as treacherous as Beata van Diemen.’

  We came to a low wall. Gabriel climbed on top and offered a hand to haul me up beside him. We dropped down into a fragrant garden of rose bushes and hyacinth beds. Among the flowers stood a statue of Jesus touching a hand to his sacred heart. Beyond lay a simple stone building surmounted by a cross and a bell tower. From inside came the faintest sound of female voices raised in song.

  ‘Have I misunderstood,’ I asked my companion, ‘or are we breaking into a convent?’

  ‘Not breaking in exactly,’ said Gabriel as we halted by a small back door.

  He tugged once on the bell pull, waited a few seconds, rang twice, then after a few moments rang a further three times. Following an anxious wait, the door opened a crack and the face of a young girl encircled by a nun’s wimple peered out at us. At the sight of Gabriel she waved us inside, closing and locking the door behind us.

  ‘Restez ici,’ she instructed us before disappearing down the narrow corridor.

  Barely seconds later we were joined by another nun, a much older woman, whose sharp cheekbones and narrow mouth were softened by warm brown eyes that regarded us with kindness and concern.

  ‘Monsieur Roland,’ she greeted my companion.

  Without bothering to introduce me, he said, ‘Mother Véronique, we need refuge - for a short time only, I swear.’

  ‘Yes, we have heard the Boche in the streets,’ she said, her face souring in distaste. ‘Come with me.’

  She led us silently through the dimly lit passageways of the convent. As we passed the doorway of the chapel I could hear from within the voices of the sisters raised in a heartfelt prayer to the Queen of Heaven.

  ‘Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.’

  We entered the mother superior’s office where two vases of blue and yellow flowers presented an odd contrast to the stark image of the suffering Christ that hung from the wall. In the better light Mother Véronique noticed the bruises on Gabriel’s face. She tutted like an anxious parent and offered to fetch some ointment, but my companion insisted that we go into hiding at once.

  The nun instructed us to move her desk a few feet forward then she tugged aside the rug that lay beneath. There was a trapdoor with an iron ring which Gabriel grabbed to pull it open.

  Mother Véronique lit an oil lantern and handed it to me. She murmured a prayer over us as I followed my companion down a narrow wooden stairway to a cramped cellar. The trapdoor closed behind us and we heard the rug and the desk being shifted back into position.

  The cellar was sparsely furnished with a pair of wooden chairs. Once we were seated Gabriel glanced upward and said, ‘We should be safe here, sir, until the Germans move on.’

  A thousand questions clam
oured in my head but I restrained them for the moment. ‘I won’t call you Graf von Falken if you don’t call me sir,’ I suggested.

  Gabriel nodded his agreement. ‘After the last war, with the end of the Hapsburgs, all such titles were banned in Austria, though some of the old nobility still use them when abroad. So, Richard it is. And I am Gabriel.’

  ‘Well, Gabriel,’ I said with a weary smile, ‘now that we’re friends, perhaps you can tell me something about these thirty-one kings that we’re all risking our lives for.’

  18

  A MATTER OF KINGS

  ‘Yes, the thirty-one kings,’ said Gabriel. He paused, brow furrowed, as if he were gathering his thoughts.

  I remained silent and after a moment he began his account.

  ‘When I was at Cambridge with our friend Jaikie,’ he began, ‘history was my great passion. Not the sort of history that interests you English. If you don’t mind my saying so, for you it seems to consist of memorising the names and dates of your own kings and queens and talking endlessly about the Battle of Hastings, you know, ten sixty-six and such like.’

  ‘I think you’re doing us a bit of a disservice,’ I interpolated drily, ‘but do go on.’

  Gabriel conceded the point with a small gesture of apology. His eyes, however, were fixed on a larger vision when he continued. ‘I have studied the rise and fall of civilisations, the spread of empires both good and bad, and this has given me a certain perspective. I cannot see the events of my own time in isolation. Every uprising, every crisis, grows out of what has gone before and, more than that, presages future events, if we could but read the meaning.’